


Look To Thy Purse

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, pg13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:37:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4037149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your money or your life!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look To Thy Purse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cherrytide](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cherrytide).



> For Cherrytide!

Shouts from the front of the stagecoach as it juddered to a skewed halt informed Dr. John Watson as to what exactly was the nature of the stoppage. His companions, Deacon Richard Thorne and his wife, Allison, his wife's maiden sister, Miss Marjorie and their cousin Professor Edwin Unthank were happy and chatty and John simply wasn't in the mood. It had been an uncomfortable fit from the start, for John had had a restless night at the inn, and breakfast had been a poor affair of burnt toast and sour small beer. So to find himself shoulder to shoulder with strangers who knew one another well and him not at all - no. He did his best to accommodate, smiling and making the occasional comment when really all he wanted to do was stare out of the window and contemplate his sudden change of circumstance.

All of which was forgotten in the instance. The ladies were shaking and terrified, Miss Marjorie already sobbing with fear even though nothing had yet happened. The Deacon was sputtering with outrage, while the Professor threatened to give whomever opened the door a good thrashing with his walking stick. John was on the verge of getting out of the coach just to get away from them when the door was flung open and a pistol shoved in.

"Your money or your life!" yelled the highwayman, who was well masked.

"What insolence!" retorted Unthank, thumping his stick on the coach floor.

"Sir, I beg you give us leave," cried Mrs. Thorne, clutching her sister's hands.

"Stand and deliver, I say!" shouted the highwayman.

John grimaced as he shifted to get his small purse. Unthank refused to move over in the slightest, leaving John to shove against him in order to reach his pocket. He was never going to sit with his dominant arm to the wall of a coach again. Moving carefully, he held out the little purse without a word.

The highwayman grabbed the purse, gestured at Unthank with the pistol. "That's right, easy as you like."

For a moment John thought of shoving the pistol down - he was close enough, and he was fairly sure that if it fired it would go into the floor of the coach - then he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Ah, another highwayman on the other side, peering through the window. This one wore a leather from brow to just below his nose, dyed with read and black swirls, with cut slits for the eyes.

"Get out."

Leather Mask had a deep voice and clearly meant business. John complied with neither too much nor too little haste. He just wanted to get off this damned road, and the sooner his companions gave their money over, the quicker he would be on his way to Little Orrie. Standing well clear of the first highwaymen, John watched Unthank and Thorne help the ladies out of the coach. Leather Mask appeared around the side of the coach, keeping his distance. Even so, John could see he would be caught in the crossfire should the short one fire. What happened next took him by surprise.

Unthank either made an unfortunate move or lost his balance, in retrospect John wasn't quite sure which, but the short highwayman's gun went off, and Unthank fell to the ground. 

"Shit!" cried the highwayman, staring at Unthank.

A moment later Mrs. Thorne silently dropped as well.

"Allison!" screamed Miss Marjorie, swiftly going to her knees to touch her sister's brow. She glanced up and cried, "Sir, _do_ something!"

For a brief second John was torn between Mrs. Thorne and the professor, but her husband was beginning to attend to her, leaving him to throw aside societal niceties in favor of treating the wounded. Before he had a chance to take more than a couple of steps, the short one shoved his pistol into his face. He held his hands up. "I'm a doctor! That man needs medical attention."

"A doctor?" asked the short highwayman. Above his mask he peered at John. "What kind of doctor?"

"A surgeon," John said shortly. He tilted his head towards Unthank. "I need to attend to him. Now."

Perhaps it was the force with which he had spoken, but the highwaymen allowed him to see to Unthank. 

A lucky shot, or maybe weak powder, all in a all. The lead hadn't penetrated the professor very much, in fact it was easily visible once John peeled back the layers of vest and shirt and coat and greatcoat. Nothing that would kill the man immediately. He stood, pointed at the back of the coach. "I'll need my kit. It's that bag, there, the black one."

"Wait," said Leather Mask. He waggled his pistol at Thorne and the women. "The rest of the money."

Silently snarling, Thorne refused with a shake of his head.

"Come on, man!" cried John. "This is no time to be parsimonious!"

Thorne's lip curled further, but he nonetheless he removed his purse from his greatcoat and tossed it at John's feet. "On your head be it."

For a second, John stared at him in disbelief. He had seen better conduct from the enemy during the war than from Thorne. "So much for your Christian decency," he spat.

The short highwayman snatched the purse from the ground, peered inside and gave a howl of delight before closing it and tossing it to Leather Mask. 

Leather Mask caught it easily, which was more than John could do at the moment. He looked inside and then glanced at Thorne with a smirk. "Much obliged, Deacon Thorne."

"You _bastard!"_ Thorne snarled. "Every man in this land will be after you once they've found out what you've done!"

Wait, what? John frowned. "You know one another?"

"Only by reputation," said Leather Mask, looking John up and down. He took a step back, and then another.

"Wait, how did you know his name?"

"Dr. Thorne is well known in certain circles for his lack of ...

"That's not true!" shouted Thorne. "Williams is a liar and a cheat!"

"Nonetheless, I have what I need, and you have nothing but your reputation left. A reputation that is sorely lacking."

At this, Mrs. Thorne sat up a little, staring at her husband. "Richard?"

"It's nothing," He answered, shaking his head. "Nothing, do you hear me?"

"Richard! Praise God, tell me you haven't done anything foolish."

"Shut it, woman!" growled Thorne, red faced.

If he raised his hand John would be forced to intervene. Unthank was in no danger of bleeding to death, not yet, anyway.

Leather Mask shook his head and _tsked_ , backing further onto the edge of the road and the forest beyond. "Well, I believe I hear hoofbeats, so I must away. Doctor, a pleasure."

Now that he had mentioned it, John realized that yes, he could indeed hear pounding hoofbeats as well. He looked down the road, saw a flash of sun on metal. That was that, then, and he had a patient to attend. Ignoring the highwaymen, as they didn't appear to want to bother him further, he went to the back of the coach and quickly unstrapped his bag. Thank god he had had the foresight to have it placed on the top of the large trunks. He returned to Unthank's side just as cavalrymen came into view. They swirled around the coach, making the coach roll back and forth as the carriage horses began to high step in place. "Keep them still!" shouted John, wondering if it would be better to pull Unthank away and lay him flat. That would only exacerbate any internal bleeding - yes, better to keep him upright. Chances were the bleeding was as superficial as the wound. After all, he personally knew the difference, didn't he? 

Ignoring the calls of the soldiers, he worked as quickly as he could, lamenting the fact that he had no alcohol to swab his instruments with after he had removed the bullet. At least they had been sterilized before he had started work, so Unthank was unlikely to get an infection. He hoped. Unthank was still unconscious, which meant John could take the opportunity to use his magnifying glass to look for fragments of bullet, threads from his shirt, any other little bit of material that might have got in there to make things hellish for the man. He put a wad of fabric against the wound, made a makeshift tie to keep it on. "This man needs to get to his destination as soon as possible."

The driver opened his mouth to speak but was distracted by gunshots in the woods. There was a scream, and then another, then another gunshot. John shook his head. What foolery. He could spare no pity for them. 

When the soldiers returned. the body of the short highwayman dragged behind one horse, tied by his feet, his arms making trails in the detritus at the side of the road. It was a disgusting and heartbreaking sight, and even though John had seen many travesties done upon corpses before, it was never pleasant. Thankfully the ladies were spared the sight, having already retreated inside the coach. John had been aware of their low conversation for some time. Listening in for a second, he understood that Mrs. Thorne was taking her husband to task quit hard. Thought John had not particularly thought of the tenor of her voice before, he was searingly glad that with Unthank having to recline on the entirety of one of the inside bench seats, the rest of his own journey would be taking place on top of the coach. A precarious position, yet one likely to be safer than inside, now that they had a retinue of soldiers to take them to the next town.

Town? It was barely a village. The inn was small but comfortable, with plenty of hot food for travellers. Though he had the option to stay the night, John decided to move on. The very idea of having to overhear the Thornes fight more was not appealing in the slightest. So, after his hasty meal of bread and cheese and a slice of cold pottage, John returned to the coach and settled in for a few more hours of travel. Due to the robbery he would be a day late to the opening of the clinic, but it couldn't be helped. Hopefully Dr. Moran would be understanding, given the circumstances.

So it was with great surprise that he awoken by hard rapping on the door. Rubbing his eyes with one hand and gripping his cane with the other, he said, "Yes?"

"Dr. Watson? It's me, Fletcher. I'd like you to come with me and take a look at one of my patients."

John consulted his watch - nearly midnight. "What, at this time of night? Can't it wait until I've settled at Dr. Moran's?"

"I have greater need of you than Dr. Moran does at this moment, Dr. Watson."

"Wel,l why didn't you say so," John said testily, swiping back the curtain. He winced, for Fletcher was holding the lamp up to the window. It was one thing to wake a man up in the middle of the night for nothing, quite another to do it for a medical reason using the brightest gods-be-damned lamp known to man.

John stumbled out of the coach, medical bag in one hand, cane in the other. No way was he going to leave it with the luggage, not on this route. Still partially blinded by the lamp, it took him a moment to notice the damned mask of the gentleman standing to his left. "Oh god, not again - "

"You were specifically requested, Dr. Watson," said the highwayman. 

Making an effort not to stare at the man's odd regalia - he was wearing a broomstick wig for god's sakes, a dark red frock coat and old-fashioned white hose and breeches. "Well, let's get on with it."

"Dr. Watson!" called the driver, still seated on the bench of the coach, his face ill-lit by the lanterns in the postern. "You can't go with them!"

John had had enough. He was late, his sleep had been interrupted yet again, Surely Dr. Moran would understand him being bloody kidnapped? If not, it was his loss. "I'm being kidnapped, see?"

The driver frowned and shook his head. "I can't stay here, sir. I must do the delivery to St. James'."

"I understand," John said, abruptly tired of having to explain everything to everyone. "It's fine. This gentleman has assured my safety, haven't you?"

The highwayman startled, blinked back at John. "Ye-es. Yes, of course. We don't want anything to happen to the good doctor. It's his doctoring that we're after, sir."

"And I'm sure they'll drop me off some place safe in the morning, am I right?" continued John, checking his pockets to see if he had left anything in the coach. No, he was good. To the driver he said, "Leave my other bag at the next inn and I'll collect it as soon as I can." 

If he had any kind of luck whatsoever, his bag would actually be at the inn when he eventually arrived there. In the meantime, though, he had clearly lost his mind, because he was joining a masked man of his own free will, and following him into the woods. Yes, his highwayman had a lamp, but that wasn't the point! What was he doing? Was he so desperate for change that this was the choice he was making?

The going was rough even with the lamp. John did his best, getting slapped by thin branches as he watched his footing, or stumbling over roots and rocks if he attempted to look ahead. The forest was old and thick and slippery with moss on rock. They went up hill and down, crossed streams and once, a small glade with standing stones. Time passed in such a manner that he was thoroughly lost by the time they stopped. All he knew of the area was that there was forest, and plenty of it. Pretty in the daylight, seeing as it was springtime and the new leaves were that peculiar shade of bright green that meant all was well in the world. At night, it was a little ominous, if a person was prone to fears of the dark. John was familiar enough with surprises at night to be wary, so when the highwayman abruptly stopped walking, John took two steps back to make sure he had room to defend himself from whatever might be about to happen.

Instead, the highwayman turned around, giving John his unmasked face. Presumably the highwayman had removed it during their walk, but why show John? It didn't bode well for his future, surely. Besides, the highwayman had a long, identifying wound along the side of his face from eyebrow to chin. It was crusted with old blood. "Am I here for you, then? Because you could have come to Dr. Moran's instead."

The highwayman shook his head, motioned to John's left with the lamp, "I got you for _him_. You go that way."

Following the motion of the lamp, John looked and blinked in surprise. He had been aware they were skirting the edge of another hill, yet the light shining from the crack within the hill was shocking. Right. Presumably his patient was within. Turning sideways, John squeezed inside, knocking his hat off in the process. The way was too narrow to retrieve it, but he was relieved when it widened almost immediately, allowing him to bend down and collect his hat. It wasn't an expensive hat, however, he didn't care to replace it from his severely depleted funds. 

Looking back John suspected that even in the daylight he would have been hard pressed to see the entrance. Really, one would have to be looking at the right spot at the right time to even notice there was an opening in the rocky outcrop in the first place. A curiosity, one that paled in importance to his patient, who lay on a blanket on the ground, looking up at him with shining, fever bright eyes. John took note of the dark hair plastered to the man's brown and neck, how pale he was even in the warm light of the small, nearly smokeless fire burning next to him. The man shifted restlessly, further rucking up the rug.

Behind John, the other highwayman spoke. "Will, I got a doctor. He'll fix you right up."

"Daniel, I don't need a doctor," mumbled the man

Daniel held his hand in both hands. "Begging your pardon, but you do." 

The cave had little ventilation and was overly warm. Below the smell of infection was damp and dirt and John really hoped his own survival was not dependent upon his patient's living. Without preamble he knelt down and opened his bag. he took out some clean linen, the bottle of alcohol, his needle case and silk thread. Thus prepared, he reached forward to move his patient's clothing aside. Instead of taking his hands away, the man grimaced and tightened his grip. John leaned back and said, "Alright, let me see."

"You're not going to tell me you're not going to hurt me, are you?" drawled the man, his voice deep.

John eyed him. Even lying down he was tall, with midnight hair and pale skin that John suspected was not all from blood loss. He was dressed like a gentleman down on his luck, though his boots were newer than the rest. There was something off, though, something John couldn't quite put his finger on. "I don't like to my patients."

"Much."

John conceded the point with a nod. "Depends on the patient. You don't strike me as someone to fool."

"Most people who try only do it the once."

"I see," John didn't like the glitter in the man's eyes, nor the sheen of sweat on his brow. "Be that as it may, I'd still like to take a look at you, okay?"

"If you must."

"Thank you," he said drily. Ah, there it was. A stick as thick as his pinky finger STICKING out of the man's torso, just above the hip. 

"Have you tried to remove it?" he asked, wishing the light was better.

"It broke off," said Fletcher from the other side of the smoldering fire. 

Just a knuckle's worth of stick was jutting from the wound, which was dark with blood under the skin. John gently touched Will's hip, ignoring his hiss of indrawn breath, and equally shaky breath out. There was no telling how deep it was, or how long it would take to get out. All he knew was that he didn't want to do it here in the cave, but clearly the sooner the man was out, the better off he would be for healing. "Will, there are two ways I can do this, and both would be best done in a house. Have you a home nearby?"

Will gave a shallow chuckle. "Must we?"

"Yes. If I leave a sliver of wood, it could travel to your heart and kill you. An infection has already begun, I need proper light and supplies. We can continue on to Port Maundy - "

'Can't," said Fletcher. He stared at John, his face hard. "They'll hang 'im if they find 'im." 

"And you an' all," murmured Will, who was clearly fading.

"You can't stay here," John said quietly.

Will's eyes closed. "Mm."

John checked Will's pulse - still steady, and strong enough to get him through the next twenty four hours. After that there would be no telling.

"Is he going to die?"

A good question. "Not yet," answered John, taking advantage of his patient's state to further examine the wound. "He's just asleep. Can you tell me how this happened?"

Fletcher nodded, drew a bit of nonsense in the dirt. "We was running and he tripped and fell."

"Right..."

"Should I go get his brother?"

John put his instruments back in the bag. "Only if his brother has a cart to get him to the surgery."

"Okay."

And just like that, Fletcher was up and out of the cave, leaving John and Will alone. Nothing for it but to wait until daylight, and if Will lived, drag him outside, perform the surgery and then try and find a way out of the forest.

~*~

"Dr. Watson."

John jerked awake at the touch on his arm, bumping his head against the stone he was leaning against. "Sorry, yes?

The man crouched in front of him nodded and gestured towards the exit, his features barely visible with the fire extinguished. "It's time to go."

"Who are you, sir?" John blurted, remembering where he was and what he was doing a second later. "Where's Will? I need to see my patient!"

"He's fine, we have him outside. Wouldn't you like to see how he's doing?"

Of course, that's why he asked just a moment ago, wasn't the man listening? He got to his feet, shaking the stranger's hand off of his arm. "Who the deuce are you?"

"Andrew Wiggins, sir. Come from the big house to collect Master - Mister William, sir."

John didn't miss the 'master', but didn't comment on it. He followed Wiggins outside, blinking in the overcast light that made the springtime green so breathtakingly bright. There was no one else there. "Where's Will?"

"He's been taken home, sir," said Wiggins, throwing up placatory hands. "He'll be fine, sir. We have a doctor on the premises who will be able to handle him."

"I demand to see him."

"I'm sorry, sir," Wiggins gestured to John's right. "I'm to bring you to the road, where you can catch the mid-morning coach to the town."

Wiggins refused to answer any more questions about Will and where he had gone, or if John could find out how he was recovering or even if he had recovered. John was not happy. Nonetheless he followed Wiggins to the road, which was surprisingly only a short way away. At least the way was as difficult in the daylight as it had been during the night, proving John wasn't totally incompetent. Still, by the time he reached the road his leg was aching fiercely in a way it hadn't the night previous. 

It wasn't until Wiggins handed him a cloth with a hard roll and a slice of cheese that he realized how hungry he was. Thirsty, too, as he drank small beer from the stoppered bottle. Wiggins remained untalkative, staying with John until the coach appeared. As soon as John was aboard - Wiggins having slipped the driver some coins of indeterminate origin, the coach pulled away and Wiggins was lost to John's sight. The other passengers, two men and an older lady who gave John the once over, sniffing delicately in the process and letting him know exactly why he was lacking. Which was clearly everything. John could understand her poor opinion of his person, he knew he was dirty and unwashed, his trousers covered in damp. That was better than some had.

The journey to Port Maundy took only three hours, by which time a hard rain had begun. By the time they pulled in to the coaching inn, John was exhausted, hungrier than ever, and in desperate need of a bath and tea, not in that order. He took a room for the night, ate a hot dinner of soup thick with potatoes and cabbage and bacon, and fell into a dreamless sleep after writing about the days events in his diary.

Presenting himself only two days late for his interview, John tried to calm his nerves with some deep breathing before knocking on the door to Dr. Moran's private office. To his very great surprise, he left an hour later having recounted his adventures of not only the war, but of his time in the woods with Wiggins and Fletcher and the strange man with the wound to his hip.

"Ah," said Dr. Moran with a frown. "Wiggins. It all comes clear. Well, Dr. Watson," he said, standing up and reaching over his desk to shake John's hand. "it will be my greatest pleasure to have you here."

"Oh," said John, blinking in surprise. Not the result he had been expecting. "I...am very glad to be here."

"Excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Perthmore is due in at any moment."

"Of course, of course," muttered John, finding himself in the hallway with a confused recollection of how he had gotten there. Hat in hand, he made his way back to the coaching inn and determined to find himself digs. Which he did on Butcher Street. Just a single room with access to the kitchen that he was sure would result in his death should the landlady ever actually catch him in it.

A month passed without consequence. John settled into a room at Mrs. Butcher's establishment. There were of course several other young men rooming there as well as a young 'lady' whom John (and many others) found pleasant company. She was popular with the young gentlemen, so John made a frequent point of inquiring after her health, and admonishments to visit him as soon as she felt any illness whatsoever. Again, his army experience came in very helpfully.

Dr. Moran proved to be a worthy employer. He was generous with his wages, and often told John to rest when it became apparent that his leg was bothering him. He constantly spoke of his son, who was away in India but was expected back before the new year arrived. The patients were the usual variety, and John reminded himself that the excitement of battle and being under fire while stitching someone up was of course very different from civilian life. That did not, make the constant stream of hacking coughs and rheumatoid complaints any easier to bear. He was, however, grateful that nobody very young had died thus far. Made spring so much easier to bear.

So, John was very surprised to find a new patient in the waiting room of the surgery. The man was tall, dressed in fine, fashionable clothing that was clearly made at the finest tailors of London. John appreciated the sentiment. Besides, a wealthy patron attending the surgery could only bring in a higher class of patient, which meant money, money he could sorely use. 

Closing the door behind himself, he smiled and sat down at his desk, gestured for the gentleman to seat himself. "Good afternoon, Dr. Watson at your service."

The man eyed him from head to toe, then slowly sat down. "Dr. Watson...my name is Sherlock Holmes."

"What may I be of help with today, Mr. Holmes?" asked John, dipping his pen into the inkstand.

"I...have a pain at my hip. An old injury that was never properly treated."

John nodded, began to write on the piece of foolscap he had brought out of his desk drawer. "Those can be nasty. How did it come about?"

"I was in the forest and fell awkwardly. Dr. Oate attended to me, but I did not find his treatment satisfactory."

John continued making notes, added a question in the margin as to who Dr Oate might be, what practice, his medical training, whether or not to avoid him, the usual. "Alright then. If you'll oh - " glancing up, he was shocked to see Mr. Holmes undressing right in front of the desk. There was an expanse of flesh before him, and when he realized he was staring, jerked his gaze to the side. "Uh, there's a screen right in that corner if you prefer."

"You're a medical doctor, ex-army, surely the human body is nothing you you will be surprised by," said Mr. Holmes. His voice was lovely, just lovely.

Though a little discombobulated by the gentleman's correct assertion (there was a suggestive tone in his voice which had John on edge a little), John nonetheless watched him undress. It felt a little rude. Having a woman undress in front of him - especially in private - was one thing, having a gentleman do it was quite another. And the way he kept looking at John, scrutinizing him...John rather felt like an insect under a microscope.

However, as soon as the shirt came off, John was drawn to the bruising above the man's left hip. Crude stitches had been pulled out, leaving a patchwork of marks no seamstress would be happy with, never mind the patient. Or fellow doctors. John shook his head. Such sloppy work, disgraceful. If he had his way this Dr. Oate would not longer see a single patient.

"You disapprove."

"Of course I do," John said hotly. He looked up the acres of skin, met Mr. Holmes' stunning eyes. "This work is substandard at best. Which was it, too fat or too slim?"

Holmes blinked. "Too slim." 

"He's not wrong there," muttered John. He returned his attention to the bruise. "You could stand to eat more, Mr. Holmes. Having said that, was there something in the wound? Clearly you did more than bruise yourself. Was there a puncture of some sort or another?"

"Yes...?"

At Holmes' tone, John looked up again and there it was. That familiarity - oh, oh! But surely not?

"Yes, Dr. Watson."

John was drawn to Holmes' intent gaze. "You? But...why?"

"You were instrumental in helping me. I am the world's only Consulting Detective, and was on a private commission from the government to retrieve a certain item from Professor Unthank and Deacon Thorne. Thanks to you, I was able to do so with a minimum of fuss."

"I'm pretty sure the ladies wouldn't think the same," answered John. His highwayman, who could have guessed! "I'm afraid there's not much I can do for you, Mr. Holmes. Cold compresses will help with the remaining bruising, but I'm afraid you'll always have this scarring."

"The body is merely transport."

"Well it's scarred transport now. I'm sure your wife will have something to say on the matter."

"Very doubtful," said Mr. Holmes with a tiny smirk. "I'm unmarried and tend to remain so. despite what my brother might think."

"I can imagine so," said John, imaging Harry's face if he were to say the same thing. 

"I...wanted to ask you to the house on Saturday. My brother is hosting a small dinner party and exhorted me to find a companion to bring."

"And you thought of me? Because we don't know each other at all."

Holmes shrugged,the merest twitch of one elegant shoulder. "You're the most interesting person I've met since leaving the City. You can't fault me for wanting to spend more time with you."

A bold statement. And John found Holmes intriguing. He wasn't sure which was more interesting, that Holmes was also a highwayman who would hang if he were ever caught, or that he was a, what did he call it, a consulting detective. "So you help the police with their enquiries?"

"No. They come to me when they find themselves at a loss, which is always. Please present yourself at eight. Dinner will be served promptly at nine. There will be others there, Dr. Moran, of course, and several acquaintances whom you might find of interest. Are you in need of a wife?"

"Uh," John gave a nervous chuckle, trying to keep his hands from fisting. Clearly Holmes' lacked in the social graces - or maybe he simply hadn't heard of the reasons why John was in Port Maundy. "No, no I'm not."

Holmes rocked back on his feet slightly. "Of course. A love affair gone sour upon your return from the war, damaged in heart and soul. Your limp is psychosomatic, by the way."

"So I've been told. I shall see you on Saturday evening, Mr. Holmes. Thank you."

Holmes tipped his head in acknowledgment and turned to leave.

"Oh, but where will I be going?" asked John, the first trickle of anxiety beginning to make its presence known in his belly. Did he even have anything to wear? 

"Herrick House, Islington. Good day."

Islington? Islington meant London, and John barely had clothing decent enough for London. Saturday, though, that gave him a few days to prepare, perhaps visit the local tailor and see what could be done on a pittance. If need be, he would ask Dr. McMillan for a small advance.

The matter settled for the moment, he made further notes about Holmes' character and the quality of his bruises, then put the paper away. There were only two more patients to see before he could go home and look at his wardrobe, such as it was. Who was he seeing again? Mr. Thomas, gout, and Mr. Van Klinken, who had recently returned from taking the waters in Bath. Poor sod was convinced it did him well, but John really thought that it was just a matter of him getting away from his wife that did the trick. 

At the knock on the door, he called out a welcome, and as Mr. Thomas limped in, John decided that something something something. No matter what happened, it would be worth it in the end, he had little doubt. And if the worst did happen - well, he would move on, wouldn't he? He would be fine, as he always was and always would be.

~*~

With no small amount of trepidation, John approached Herrick House. Fine coaches were lined up in front of the street entrance, patrons in their finery being escorted up the marble stairs with great dignity. John felt completely out of place in his own drab clothing, his best. Clean, and mended where no one could see. At least his cravat was snowy white, his waistcoat in regimental Gosling Green. His jacket was dark brown, his trousers camel, and his boots gleamed dully in the gaslights. Now he wondered if he was supposed to wear his uniform, then decided it didn't matter. He paused to take a deep breath, then strode on. 

Following an elderly couple, the man in top coat and tails, the woman draped in a furred opera coat that hid everything but the jewels at her neck and ears (oh god, he was woefully under dressed!), John hoped he made an impression of sturdy reliability rather than that of a hanger-on. The footman at the door smiled at the couple, then turned a wary and dismissive gaze upon John. 

"Oi, this is a private residence," he hissed.

John opened his mouth to speak, but before he had the chance, the door opened again and a butler wearing spotlessly clean white gloves looked John up and down. "Dr. Watson, Master Holmes is expecting you."

There was nothing he could say that wouldn't make him look like a fool more than he already was, so John merely nodded. He did glance at the footman though, noticed the blanched complexion and smirked. He really had had enough of fools on the day. Which had him wondering why on earth he was headed towards Herrick House in the first place. Curiosity, obviously...and a desire to make further acquaintance with Master Holmes. Moving up in Society couldn't hurt either.

Inside, the house was everything one would have expected upon viewing the outside. It was grand, profligate in the use of white candles. The scent of beeswax was the base to the jangle of perfume and cologne of the...crowd. Yes, most definitely a crowd. Men and women were everywhere, chatting, flirting. bowing, laughing. 

And this was only the foyer.

John gave his cane and overcoat to another footman, and followed the flow of the people into the next room. The salon was large but comfortable, and John circled it twice before he caught sight of Master Holmes. Hands behind his back, John made his way to Master Holmes - who was otherwise unoccupied by company, in fact he looked downright disdainful and haughty of his guests - and was glad to see a bit of welcome on his countenance. Once he was standing before the man, John bowed. "Thank you, sir, for the kind invitation. "

Holmes inclined his head in agreement. "Of course, Dr. Watson. Happy to oblige one such as yourself, presumably well knowledgeable of the local customs and stories."

John really didn't have the foggiest idea of what the man was on about. But he never let ignorance get in the way. "Do you have need of medical assistance? Are you being bothered by your wound?"

"Pray, sir, no," answered Master Holmes, his eyes glittering in the soft light. "I shall require _your_ assistance later on in the evening."

John bobbed his head. Just once, and gravely. He turned to face the same direction as Holmes. "I do hope nothing untoward is going to happen."

Holmes shook his head, then winked at John slyly. "Do you know any of the guests? There's Pomeroy, over there, worried about our forces in India. His wife, that woman there, wears her paisley shawl, but only because he insists on it. The Weatherfields, wool merchants with holdings in Australia, Pilkington, he owns sugar plantations in the West Indies, et cetera, et cetera."

"You don't sound particularly enamored of any of them."

"You're perceptive."

Now it was John's turn to shrug. "Part of my duty as a doctor."

"Ye-es…" Holmes eyed John again, his gaze impertinent.

John shifted from foot to foot, refused to be embarrassed or ashamed.

"Would you care to see my lab?"

"Lab?"

"Yes, for experiments. I could use your medical opinion on several matters. Especially your experience in the field."

"Of course, why not."

"Excellent."

Skipping out on the party held great appeal. John had already tired of the sound and the heat, the glances wondering who he was and what he was doing there. Besides, he wanted to ask Holmes more about being a highwayman, risking it all for the Government - yes, he had to know more. "Will I still get my dinner after?"

"In more ways than one, I think."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Here lies DuVall: Reder, if male thou art,  
Look to thy purse; if female, to thy heart.  
Much havoc has he made of both; for all  
Men he made to stand, and women he made to fall  
The second Conqueror of the Norman race,  
Knights to his arm did yield, and ladies to his face.  
Old Tyburn’s glory; England’s illustrious Thief,  
Du Vall, the ladies’ joy; Du Vall, the ladies’ grief.  
~Claude Du Val memorial at St. Paul's Cathedral  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


End file.
